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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178904">the ten commandments</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/marssram/pseuds/marssram'>marssram</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Haikyuu!!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Catholic!Sakusa, Falling In Love, M/M, Religion, Self-Indulgent, Slice of Life, a vent fic of sorts</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:36:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,409</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178904</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/marssram/pseuds/marssram</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a moment when they are both spent and panting, Kiyoomi nestled into the crook of Atsumu's neck, that Kiyoomi almost says <em>Amen.</em></p><p>-<br/>In many ways, this story is about disillusion. In others, it is about rediscovering religion altogether.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>271</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the ten commandments</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>forewarning this is not an accurate depiction of japan whatsoever. i wrote it to vent and maybe someone will also benefit from it. if you’re not comfy w/ that i totally understand. catch you on the next one! </p><p>cw// brief mention of underage masturbation, a brief mention of sex (legal age), barely-there homophobia because that is not what this is about</p><p>as said in the tags, this is a self-indulgent, vent fic. if you are not comfortable with religious terms being used to describe non-religious events, then this one is not for you. and that is okay!</p><p>everyone experiences faith differently</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Kiyoomi is eight years old when he learns the Ten Commandments.</p><p>It's Sunday school after mass and Kiyoomi is tired. His mother, unbeknownst to him, had scheduled her weekly book club meeting at noon today. Why she does this, Kiyoomi does not know. What he does know is that his tiny family unit, composed of mother, father, son, attends 12:00pm mass every Sunday. </p><p>They do this because, “It is the Sabbath day, no working,” his mother chides when father begins to draft emails on Sunday afternoons.</p><p>His father’s eyes ghost across the frames of his readers, reverent. Father does not respond, and his mother would not repeat the statement until the following Sabbath day. </p><p>His father often made ignorance look like a prayer.</p><p>To honor the Sabbath day, they have 12:00pm Sunday mass. His mother, lean in black, kitten heels and a beige pencil skirt. She wore pearls that lay delicately across her collar and tiny earrings to match. Never a hair out of place, always displaying a red lip and her husband on her arm.</p><p>It was clear his mother was fond of accessories. </p><p>But not today. No, rushed out of the house for the 10:00 am service because of <em>book club</em>. Kiyoomi does not care that one of his socks does not match the other.</p><p>He writes down the Ten Commandments. </p>
<ol>
<li>Thou shall have no other God before Me</li>
<li>Thou shall have not make unto thee any graven image</li>
<li>Thou shall not take the Lord’s name in vain</li>
<li>Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy</li>
<li>Honor your father and your mother</li>
<li>Thou shall not murder</li>
<li>Thou shall not commit adultery</li>
<li>Thou shall not steal</li>
<li>Thou shall not bear false witness against your neighbor</li>
<li>Thou shall not covet</li>
</ol><p>At this point, he doesn’t understand the majority of this list. Does not know the meaning of adultery or the act of bearing false witness, and to a neighbor no less.</p><p>What Kiyoomi does understand is that God has created a list of rules for him to follow. </p><p>He looks at number 4.</p><p>
  <em> “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy” </em>
</p><p>He thinks of book club, red lipstick, and itchy socks. </p><p>He draws a line through the letters.</p><p>-</p><p>Kiyoomi is eleven when he is called to the counselors' office. </p><p>Miss Day asks him about his mom and “does she make you dinner at home?” <em> Yes, when she is not tired from work, </em>he’ll say. He does not think this conversation is out of place, it is not the first time he sits on the other side of her desk.</p><p>“Have you seen daddy lately?” She asks, voice sweet, though bitter in the aftertaste. </p><p>Kiyoomi nods.</p><p>“Has he yelled at mommy?” Sour, sour, sour.</p><p>Kiyoomi nods. He knows what comes next. </p><p>“Has daddy hit mommy?”</p><p>Kiyoomi shakes his head, “No.”</p><p>Miss Day smiles, like lemondrops, and dismisses him back to his social studies class.</p><p>Back at his desk, he scribbles across the wood (because it's a rebellious thing to do in the 5th grade). He draws frowny faces and happy faces; erases them with dull, pink rubber when he gets bored.</p><p>Before recess, he doodles in the margins of his notebook. He begins to write in neat spaces.</p><p>
  <em> “Thou shall not bear false witness to thy neighbor.” </em>
</p><p>He writes it exactly 33 times, the number of lines that fill a college-ruled page.</p><p>The page is ripped out unceremoniously as he heads to the playground in a single-file line. He balls the paper between his hands, pencil smudging his palms. Throws the wad toward the trashcan like he’s scoring a final point, the way most kids do. </p><p>Kiyoomi will repeat this process for the rest of the school year.</p><p>-</p><p>When Kiyoomi is fourteen, he goes to summer camp. His mother works full-time and he has not seen his father in two months. Kiyoomi does not complain. His mother no longer smiles with her eyes, she has not worn red lipstick in six months. </p><p>Summer camp, for all intents and purposes, is exceedingly boring. They play tetherball an excessive amount and drink box carton juice. Kiyoomi does not drink the juice, the carton feels too sticky in his hands. </p><p>At the end of most days, Kiyoomi is the last child to leave. Kiyoomi does not complain. He reminds himself of her sacrifice. Kiyoomi loves her.</p><p>On Mondays and Wednesdays, Kiyoomi waits to go home with two other children. They’re in his age group and participate in the same activities as Kiyoomi. </p><p>They also look exactly alike. They’re commonly referred to as 'the Miyas’' among the camp counselors and students.</p><p>Kiyoomi isn’t sure that he’s actually heard their names separately from one another. </p><p>“Hey, Sakusa-kun!” Miya #1 quips, sliding onto the bench in the designated “waiting room” as the staff clean the main building. It's Wednesday. </p><p>Kiyoomi nods in their general direction, eyes trained on the clock above the reception desk. His lunch pail rests in his lap. Thirteen more minutes.</p><p>Its when the large hand ticks over the 10 that he feels warm fingers pressed to his wrist. He flinches, eyes darting to the source. Miya #2 has two hands caressing his wrist, framing the bracelet that wraps around it.</p><p>“What’s this?” Miya #2 asks, and <em> what’s this kid's name </em>, and why is he touching him? Kiyoomi feels hot, his skin burns. He does not pull away. </p><p>“My mother gave it to me,” he says without thinking. He is staring at Miya #2’s eyes. They’re gold. He is reminded of chalices full of red wine. </p><p>His skin burns.</p><p>He does not pull away. </p><p>“Why is there a ‘T’ on it? Your name doesn’t have a ‘T’!” Miya #2 lets his eyes shift to the ceiling, a tongue peaking between his lips in concentration. “Does it?”</p><p>“No, ya moron!” Miya #1 slaps a hand over his twin’s head, then leans over to admire Kiyoomi’s wrist. Miya #2 lets go to pacify the blow.</p><p>His wrist still burns in the absence. </p><p>“It's a cross,” Kiyoomi blurts out, “I’m Catholic.”</p><p>The skin on his wrist feels like it has begun to crawl off the muscle. </p><p>“Catholic?” Miya #2 blinks, “That’s cool,” hands safely in his lap. </p><p>Kiyoomi doesn’t give a response, it is not because he can’t find it within himself to agree.</p><p>“I’m Atsumu, by the way!” Miya #2,<em> Atsumu </em>, chirps.</p><p>“I’m Osamu,” the other Miya supplies, a lazy salute in Kiyoomi’s general direction.</p><p>This is information he did not ask for, but an olive branch he will surely take. </p><p>That night, Kiyoomi kneels beside his bed. He prays for good health, the happiness of his family, and peace on earth. He also prays for new friendships and thanks God for the color gold.</p><p>- </p><p>Kiyoomi is fifteen when he is panting on his bed, a loose fist stroking himself underneath the covers.</p><p>His eyes are screwed shut and his empty hand searches for sheets to hold.</p><p>Sweat is collecting in the dip of his clavicle. Pleasure pools itself at the bottom of his stomach, heat prickling over his skin, his body erupts in goosebumps.</p><p>Kiyoomi thinks of the color gold and warm fingers. He sees it behind his eyelids.</p><p>His eyes snap open, his release overwhelming as cum slides down his hand and wets his boxers. He pumps his fist through the pleasure, grabs the pillow under his neck with his free hand.</p><p>He moans, breathy, barely there, “<em> Atsumu. </em>”</p><p>And then the high is over and Kiyoomi feels stunned in place. </p><p>He repeats the Our Father 10 times in succession. He tries to convince himself that Atsumu’s name did not taste like a prayer on his lips.</p><p>-</p><p>When Kiyoomi tells his mother he is gay, she doesn’t respond at first.</p><p>She stares at the table in front of her, a worn t-shirt slides off her shoulder slightly. Her nails are not painted. </p><p>“Are you sure?” she asks, barely a whisper. Kiyoomi feels his heart crack behind his rib cage. He thinks of honoring thy mother. He knows he is not a good son.</p><p>Kiyoomi nods his head, and it feels heavy. The room, the air, it hangs like curtains. </p><p>They sit in silence together for what feels like hours though it cannot be more than a minute. </p><p>He feels like he is in confession. There is an imaginary sheet that separates him from his mother, she is so far out of reach. He is confessing his sins in the hopes that she will reason the debt for him. He hopes she prays the rosary for him in an attempt to wash away his desires. He tells himself he wants this. But he doesn’t, not really.</p><p>He hopes she will accept him, but he is far too used to the pain that comes with breaking the rules. </p><p>His mother stands from her seat at the dinner table, picking up a glass of water with her. They don’t talk about it after this. Kiyoomi never knows if she ended up praying a rosary for him.</p><p>Kiyoomi prays that night for good health, happiness for his family, and peace on earth. He also prays, begs, to be let into heaven when he dies. His eyes burn until he falls asleep. </p><p> -</p><p>Kiyoomi is eighteen years old when he moves out of his childhood home. He is going to college, furthering his education, and following in his father’s footsteps. </p><p>He does not think about how he has not spoken to his father in two years. Kiyoomi does not think of him.</p><p>The day he moves into his apartment, his mother vacuums his new carpets and gives him a cutlery set. She tells him she loves him and kisses his cheek.</p><p>As she turns to the door she reminds him, “There's a Catholic church down the street, don’t forget their noon mass.” </p><p>He smiles, then, a light tug of the lips. He promises her he will not forget.</p><p>Much later, Kiyoomi sits on his couch, writing in a journal and preparing for the semester to begin. His phone illuminates, he is not surprised.</p><p>From: Atsumu</p><p>
  <b>omi-omi!!! are you moved into the new place yet???</b>
</p><p>A real smile graces his lips, he moves his thumbs across the screen. </p><p>To: Atsumu</p><p>
  <b>Just moved in. What about you?</b>
</p><p>The response comes in seconds.</p><p>From: Atsumu</p><p>
  <b>same! come over?</b>
</p><p>Kiyoomi does not hesitate to shut his notebook and stand to collect his necessities. </p><p>Kiyoomi’s friendship with the Miya twins has remained one of the only consistencies in his life. When summer camp ended four years ago, he discovered that the Miyas’ do not live far from his tiny house in the center of the city. When the <em> Miyas’ </em>find out Kiyoomi does not live far from them, he could not escape the overbearing invitations to assist them in teenage boy adventures.</p><p>He never claimed he wanted to.</p><p>Kiyoomi locks the door behind him and jogs down the stairs of his complex. Atsumu and Osamu live close. He knows this because they discussed their living plans after their acceptance into the same university. </p><p>He is grateful. The twins had singlehandedly evicted the loneliness that had carved residency into his chest years ago. He prickles at the thought of their absence.</p><p>A ten-minute walk and a flight of stairs later and Kiyoomi is rapping a single knuckle against their apartment door. It doesn’t take long for an answer, and he is not surprised when Atsumu opens the door, a wide grin spread across his face.</p><p>“Omi-Omi! Come in, come in,” Atusmu holds the door open, a hand tugging on Kiyoomi’s sleeve. </p><p>Much has changed about Atsumu in the last four years he has known him. He is taller now, lean muscle has grown to support the length. His hair is dyed a shitty color of blonde because <em> “I’m tired of being called ‘Samu!” </em> and <em> “I think I look better anyway”. </em>His clothes are different now. No more basketball shorts and generic t-shirts. He wears black skinny jeans, often with rips in the knees. He wears crewneck sweaters and he has pierced his ears. Sometimes, Atsumu wears rings.</p><p>But some things have not changed at all. </p><p>“This place is a fucking disaster,” Kiyoomi comments, scanning the room for a mere ten seconds. The couch sits in the center of the living room, dining room chairs are stuck in the hallway. He is afraid to see what their bedrooms look like.</p><p>“Oh, quit it, will ya? I just brought the last box in,” Atsumu shuts the door and promptly steps over a stack of DVDs. “Osamu is still collectin' his shit from the house.”</p><p>Kiyoomi hums and it should be awkward. It should be awkward because he doesn’t know what to do with his hands or where to move because there is currently nowhere to sit, thanks to a certain bleach-blonde. It should be weird when Atsumu walks silently into his bedroom and Kiyoomi follows.</p><p>But it's not, it hasn’t been for as long as he can remember. </p><p>They take a seat on his bed, the only thing that looks reasonably put together compared to the disaster surrounding it. Atsumu is complaining about his landlord, or Osamu, he can’t say he is really paying attention when blonde hair falls into his lap.</p><p>It’s familiar when Kiyoomi’s hands find their way to soft hair. He lightly twists the strands, cards long fingers to the roots. His nails scratch blunt lines against the scalp. Atsumu stops chattering.</p><p>“I  missed ya, Omi-kun,” Atsumu says after a second with closed eyes, hands lazily clasped over his stomach.</p><p>“I saw you a couple of days ago,” Kiyoomi comments because, why not. Atsumu always knows what he means. </p><p>“Ya missed me too, right?” Atsumu continues as if Kiyoomi had said nothing at all. The Miya twins are selective listeners, Kiyoomi has learned. </p><p>Or, rather, they never settle for anything less than the truth. </p><p>“Yeah,” Kiyoomi breathes, and it feels pious. </p><p>Oftentimes, Kiyoomi feels more clerical in the presence of Atsumu than in a pew on Sundays. </p><p>“Omi-kun, ya should stay over tonight!” Atsumu breaks the comfortable silence, “Osamu is makin' onigiri and I bought pickled plums just for ya,” his eyes are open again, Kiyoomi can’t help but dive into their gold. The light is casting sheets of amber across Atsumu’s freckled cheeks and Kiyoomi <em> wants </em>. </p><p>Kiyoomi hums, extending a hand over Atsumu’s interlocked fingers, his other hand still resting in a mop of hair. Atsumu reacts seamlessly to the touch, fingertips ghosts across one another. It feels like a dance.</p><p>Kiyoomi has never felt a sacred touch like Atsumu's touch.</p><p>Atsumu takes Kiyoomi’s fingers in a lazy grip, bringing the tips to brush his lips. Kiyoomi’s skin breaks out in goosebumps and he feels the desire to praise. </p><p>There is no name for this yet. There is no rush to give it one.  </p><p>There is no hesitation when Kiyoomi leans to brush Atsumu’s lips with his own. None more when Atsumu’s fingers find his way into black curls. </p><p>His dance with Atsumu is a ritual of sorts. It is divine in ways that Kiyoomi knows too well. </p><p>When Kiyoomi finds himself inside Atsumu, his skin is wet and his shirt has been thrown to the floor. Atsumu lays beneath him, hands squeezing Kiyoomi’s biceps in an attempt to ground. Atsumu’s hair lays flat on the pillow below him, his eyes roll into the back of his head as Kiyoomi pushes forward. </p><p>“Oh, god, <em>Omi</em>,” Atusmu moans, an arch in his back as Kiyoomi picks up a quicker pace. Their hands find each other and fingers twist themselves together. </p><p>“<em>Yes</em>, baby, don’t stop-” Atsumu is hooking a free hand around Kiyoomi’s neck and stealing a kiss. It is soft but hot, warm but desperate. </p><p>And then Kiyoomi is repeating Atsumu’s name like a Hail Mary. He is calling his name as if the boy underneath him has committed divine sacrifice, cleansed him of all that would taint his soul. Kiyoomi is devoted to him, praises Atsumu with all his body can give. He is kissing his neck, whispering holy words down the column of his throat. At this moment, Kiyoomi <em> believes.</em> He is holding his breath in the anticipation of being submerged underwater, the way you do in the act of purification. Kiyoomi is giving himself to Atsumu, pushing his devotion into his chest and telling the boy to keep what he rightfully owns. </p><p>There is a moment when they are both spent and panting, Kiyoomi nestled into the crook of Atsumu's neck, that Kiyoomi almost says <em>Amen</em>. </p><p> </p><p>The next day, Kiyoomi wakes up in a bed that is not his own in a room that is far too messy. There is blonde hair fawned across his chest, and fingers intertwined with his own. </p><p>Kiyoomi checks his phone for the time. It is Sunday, and the 12:00pm mass has probably just ended.</p><p>-</p><p>The day Atsumu officially became Kiyoomi’s boyfriend is the day he tells his mother he is seeing a man. </p><p>She has cut her hair to the shoulders and there are small lines that cup the sides of her lips. She is not old, but she has aged. </p><p>“That’s a sin,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And, in many ways, it is. It is why it took him so long to tell her. It is why his hands shake underneath the table.</p><p>She puts her face into one of her hands, an elbow rested on the table. She has gone through too much pain and horror in one lifetime. Kiyoomi wonders how she still believes. </p><p>When his mother tells him she cannot support his relationship, he does not complain. This time, he does not think of honoring thy mother. But he loves her all the same.</p><p>“I love you, Kiyoomi,” and he believes her. </p><p>“I’m sorry, Kiyoomi,” and he wishes she wasn’t.</p><p>“How did we get here, Kiyoomi?” He does not know.</p><p>-</p><p>“‘Tsumu,” </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“Do you believe in God?”</p><p>Silence.</p><p>“I don’t think so.”</p><p>Kiyoomi stares at him from under the covers, wrapped around the man.</p><p>“Why?” He asks, he begs. He needs to know.</p><p>“I don’t know, Omi...I think we create our own fate.” Atsumu breathes like he's looking for the words when he already knows them, “My path is mine to choose.”</p><p>-</p><p>Kiyoomi is not allowed to get married in a Catholic church. More accurately, he is not allowed to marry in his country. </p><p>This does not stop him from buying silver bands and getting down onto one knee. </p><p>This does not keep him and Atsumu from crying on the floor of their shared apartment. They promise each other love and devotion. They seal these wishes with kisses and wipe away the tears. It feels like prayer after communion. </p><p>Kiyoomi is twenty-five years and twenty-three days old when Atsumu becomes his fiancé. It takes him no more than 24 hours later to make Atsumu his husband.</p><p>They are in their apartment, drinking wine and giggling to themselves. They have written letters for one another in the place of vows. They are alone. This is for no one else but them. </p><p>Atsumu reads through fat tears, a balled-up tissue in his hand. He tells Kiyoomi that he loves him more than he has loved anything else. He promises that he will be true for as long as he lives and that he will do all he can to make Kiyoomi happy.</p><p>Kiyoomi cries, weeps, even. Because Atsumu is so oblivious to the fact that his existence alone has given him more reason than any to become born-again.</p><p>There is a single light fixture over the kitchen table, the wine bottle is more than halfway done. Their hands are held limply in one another, silver bands christen their fourth finger. </p><p>Kiyoomi looks at his now-husband and his heart cannot nearly stand it. He tells Atsumu that loving him is a religion in its own right. He seeks baptism in his light.</p><p>Kiyoomi thinks of red lipstick, Sunday school, and lined paper. He thinks of his mother’s eyes and the color gold. He realizes that faith was never a matter of following the rules.</p><p>Atsumu squeezes his hand and presses lips to his knuckles.</p><p> </p><p>Kiyoomi is a married man, in his own right, when he whispers to Atsumu later that night in the darkness of their room. </p><p>
  <em> “Ever this day, be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen.</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://twitter.com/_marssram">twitter</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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